65. Chapter 65

Three short days, three brief days, three bright days, three beautiful days.

But only three days.

My son lived for three days. Each one—no, each moment—that he touched, he set afire. His life was so short and so full of glory.

I held him in my arms and watched him sleep for the first day. It was all he did.

He was so lovely. I could see the pale color of his eyelids, the golden fringe of his soft hair, as delicate as lamb’s wool, the fine color of his skin once he was bathed in the ice-cold river.

I dressed him in Mandy’s very old baby clothes and just held him. I reveled in touching his skin—I could not get enough contact with the sweetness of his soft touch. I loved him with a tenderness that shocked me, despite the months I’d already adored him. I would lay down my life for this little one in an instant. He was so tiny, and fragile, and he depended utterly on me.

Me, and no other person. His life was in my hands, and yet he could sleep so peacefully with it there. He had so much confidence in me, in his innocence and sleeping childlike joy.

My Carlisle. My son.

The second day he woke, screaming, at two in the morning. I rose and fed him. The pain surprised me, as did the sweetness, the protectiveness, that overwhelmed me. That was the true emotion.

He cried and cried. Like a bullhorn, he never silenced. But I didn’t care. This little boy loved me, even if he didn’t know it yet. He was my whole life, and I was his. We were a family, a tiny little compact family, an independent unit that could function happily without another person.

It would be difficult in three weeks, I was sure, when I had to go work. I knew it. But I didn’t think about that. Perhaps I could bring him to the class with me. Maybe I could have Mandy mind him in the back of the room for a bit of my salary. She was such a clever child, and she’d be able to keep up.

And little Carlisle looked like an angel. He captivated everyone, especially women, especially girls Mandy’s age. I remembered that time in my life, when the urge to have children of my own was just setting in and I had to touch, to hold, to talk to every baby I saw.

We’d make it through.

Until the third day, when Carlisle fell ill.

He coughed and coughed, his little lungs producing such a feeble sound, such a weak spasm that nonetheless took all his strength. He didn’t cry once. He just coughed and coughed, like all the air in the world was expelling itself bit by bit in the wet sound.

It wasn’t a healthy sound.

The fourth morning, he never woke up. I’d watched all through the night as his coughs became more and more frequent, as his breathing, deep through the stomach like every baby, sped, then slowed, then stopped.